


The Comfort of You

by dearxalchemist



Series: in a landscape of stars, i chose you [1]
Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Reconciliation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26763010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: The sound of the television vibrates against the window and he peers in with hands cupped around his face to see her stretched out on the couch, papers everywhere, red pen between her lips as she holds a paper above her head to study with great intent. Her hair is spilling over the couch in wave of dark curls, and he marvels at the simplicity of it all. She looks absolutely normal. Devastatingly normal, peaceful without him.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Vic Sage
Series: in a landscape of stars, i chose you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950289
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	The Comfort of You

He often forgets how Gotham really smells when he returns. It smells like a mix of industrial pollution, brackish water from the harbours, and nothing at all like Hub City. He leaves the train with his head ducked down, hat on his head, no one notices him anyways in the flurry of snow falling in the city for the first time all year. People are already complaining of scraping driveways come morning, but he ignores them all as he passes. His mask is balled up in his pocket, bare face being kissed by flurries. It makes his cheeks match his hair. Vic shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling for his gloves and hastily shoving them on his quickly numbing fingers. 

“I should call…” He mutters to himself, “that’s what you do.” 

He tries to pull up the social cues she has so painstakingly drilled into him on the last six months, twenty-one days, fourteen hours, and thirty-five minutes. She reminds him to call since he refuses to text, there’s too many hands those messages could fall into, cell phones aren’t safe but the Government is slowly killing the payphones making his anonymity harder and harder. Helena gave him a phone, sleek and black, the screen already has a chip from him dropping it after a night of scrolling internet sleuthing led to him falling asleep in his favorite chair, the phone becoming victim to the floor. He only has one contact in it, one photo, no messages, one voice mail saved-- she had pocket dialed him, her useless mutterings forever recorded on his digital answering machine.

He listens to it when the nights get a little too long and the trains stop running. 

Vic pulls out the phone and double taps the little screen. It illuminates amongst the darkness of the city and he stops on the sidewalk to quickly type in a code too long for anyone to memorize, before turning it back off and stuffing it down in his pocket. He decides he doesn’t need to call. If he has anyone tailing him, they can’t know where he’s going. Vic glances over his shoulder. 

The paranoia is getting a little worse, but Helena doesn’t seem to mention it anymore. She just sighs and reminds him of how many ‘bad guys’ she’s tossed into gutters. It doesn’t soothe him like she thinks it does, but he lets her brag until she’s content. He crosses the street right over the crosswalk which leads him into a burrow of the city. Tall buildings are illuminated with door lights and street lights that seem to stretch on for an eternity. All of the buildings look the same, except every other one has another color slapped onto the brick. They are all cookie-cutter, cheap apartments, ones that the working class usually fill. 

He walks until his feet start to ache, the old dress shoes he’s wearing are worn down, dried blood is caked on the underside of the heels, excellent for remaining invisible, poor for snowy nights in a city that didn’t particularly belong to him. Vic stops outside of a light gray building on the corner and begins to count the windows. On the sixth floor he sees the light on, the fire escape is decorated with a dying plant and nothing else, window closed and curtains open. When a shadow passes by the glass, his heart skips a beat and he glances up to the sky overhead. The clouds are thick and dark, no moon, no infamous signal in the sky. 

He breathes a sigh of relief and begins to climb. The old iron squeaks every few steps, he notes the rust on the third floor and makes a mental note to not put too much weight there on his way back down and climbs until his breath clouds the window of the sixth floor, corner apartment. The edges of her window are slick with moisture, she must have cooked tonight, filled her apartment with the heat of the kitchen as she worked. His gloved fingers trace over the sill and he moved to lift the glass. It didn’t budge. She had locked it for once. 

The sound of the television vibrates against the window and he peers in with hands cupped around his face to see her stretched out on the couch, papers everywhere, red pen between her lips as she holds a paper above her head. Her hair is spilling over the couch in wave of dark curls and he marvels in the simplicity of it all. She looks absolutely normal.

Helena is anything but normal. He knows this. He dares to even love such an idea, of this woman who is an unstoppable force with no concept of white and black, her world is shades of gray and personal vendettas. Helena stretches once more on the couch, taking the red pen from her mouth to mark something on the paper with ease. 

He knocks, the pen goes wild over the page as she all but throws herself off of the couch and onto the floor. A momentary flash of fear crosses her face, followed by anger as she pulls her pen up like mini dagger, set to throw it with deadly precision at the window when she recognizes the outline of him. Her shoulders sag and she stomps over to the window. In one quick yank the glass comes up and he’s met withe the lingering smell of homemade food, warm and tinged with garlic, but all of it is forgotten as she shouts at him with her voice sharper than any knife.

“You’re supposed to call! I gave you a phone Q!” Helena’s cheeks are flushed red, her teeth are clenched tightly together and he can see the muscle in her jaw is strained. Anger radiates from her form. 

“I wanted to…”

“No!” She shouts the word and slams the window back down in his face. It’s a miracle the glass stays in place. She keeps her hand on the window, glaring at him when he takes the step back to leave. A minute ticks by and then a second, a third, and finally he backs up to go back down the escape, shoulders slumping. He should have called, he should have warned her, should have asked if she even wanted to see him after being apart for so long. 

His foot touches down on the ladder when he hears the window open back up, “No, come back!” 

Her voice isn’t as angry and this time her hand reaches into the cold for his. She manages to grab hold of his coat sleeve, pulling him impatiently over the threshold. Vic stumbles a bit, but once he’s inside she closes the window behind him, putting the lock in place before grabbing at his coat again. Helena is far from gentle. She pulls at his coat until he’s leaning over, close enough for her mouth to find his. She kisses him until he’s gasping for air, until he has to pull back to recover his bearings. 

His eyes glance over her living quarters, there’s a half-decorated tree in the corner where her desk usually sits, the desk now stowed away for the holidays no doubt, leading to all the school papers being strewn across her coffee table and couch, markers and highlighters all around. The television drones on and on with the nightly news bleeding into a late night talk-show. 

“Am I…” He clears his throat, “Not welcome?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She waves a hand at him, reaching behind him to pull the blinds down, drawing the curtains for privacy. “I just wish you would use that phone.”

“Trackable.”

“Yeah, that’s why I got it for you. I’d like to know when you’re coming here. It’s not like we have…” It’s her turn to trail off and she walks to the kitchen as she does so, opening the fridge and pulling out the leftovers of her dinner to warm up for him. He doesn’t tell her no. Vic learned a long time ago to never reject food from her. Helena mutters something else and slides the homemade plate of lasagna into the microwave.

“Are you listening?” She asks him. 

“Yes. No set schedule.” He nods to her and stands still for a minute too long, feeling like an obscure piece of furniture in her little home. His own home is empty, soulless, untraceable. Hers is full of art, plates, second-hand furniture, and little things here and there that just fit the woman in the kitchen.

The microwave dings as she’s pulling a glass out of the cabinet and setting him a place at her kitchen bar, “Come, eat.”

He eats like a starving man. A home cooked meal is such a rarity in his life, something he only gets when Helena is around. She refuses to eat an abundance of ready-to-eat frozen meals, instead spending hours in the grocery store to find fresh ingredients, an unnecessary thing in his world. Helena pours herself another glass of wine, gives him one too but he only sips that, going back to scraping the fork over the plate until it’s all gone. 

“Thank you,” He murmurs the soft appreciation, he no longer feels cold, but warmed from the inside out. She crosses behind him and pulls at his coat. Vic lets his arms go limp, lets her pull his coat away. She takes his hat too and hangs both by the door, coming back to pull him free from the bar stool, drawing him towards her couch for more comfort. He lets her lead him around. He can’t seem to stop his feet from following her. He would follow her to the edges of space, hell, and everything in between, but can’t seem to say the words to her. Instead he settles for the silence between them. She sets him on the couch, pulls the blanket from the back of it and tucks it over his shoulders, kisses the top of his hair before making it messy with a ruffle of her fingers.

“I always forget how bright red…” She snickers softly, teasing him for not wearing the mask, for giving himself over to her with no second skin to block the way. 

Vic tilts his head up to her own, frowning slightly, “Would you prefer the mask?” 

“Don’t be an idiot.” She repeats the words from earlier. Her brows knitting together in concern before she crosses in front of him and takes the place next to him on the couch, gathering up more papers to grade, “Don’t ask that question again.”

“Can I ask another?” He turns his head over, watching her pull her legs up, tucking them under her, pen cap already in her mouth as she begins going down the line of questions, looking for the incorrect answers. 

“Mhm,” She hums softly, not glancing up at him. Instead she runs the pen over the top, making a perfect one-hundred in a little loop, following with a little star at the corner of the page. He watches her work with ease, moving onto the next page with her little red pen on the hunt of mistakes.

His mouth forms the words, “Can I stay?”

Her pen scratches an ‘x’ over an answer. He waits for her to put an ‘x’ on him as well, but she does no such thing. 

“I was expecting you to,” she doesn’t look up from the papers still, “I hope you’ll stay for a while.”

Helena shifts now, moving to lay her back against his side, “You hope or want?” 

“Does it make a difference to you?” 

“Yes.” He answers her matter-of-factly. He wants to hear her say the words. Vic wants her to say she wants him to stay, wants him to be with her even if it’s for such a short time. Christmas is four days away, three nights, he can make the train on the fourth, be back in Hub before she grows too used to his body in her bed. 

“Then,” Helena shifts again, this time picking his arm up and sliding under it, she lays now half against him on the couch with her legs stretched to the other end, she smells of floral shampoo and ink, “I want you to stay, but you have to actually stay. You can’t skip breakfast.”

Vic takes a moment as she makes herself comfortable against him before he fully relaxes. He lets his arm slide over her stomach and pulls her into him until there’s no space left, she’s draped comfortably into the curve of him, papers to grade in her hand. His hand twitches for the remote, to turn away from the channel of mind-numbing late-night television, enjoying the warmth of her finally returning to him after months of being away. 

“I think I want to stay.”

She marks another one-hundred across the top of the page, adds a little star to the corner before tilting her head back against his chest, the word leaves her with a soft sigh and upward curve of her lips, “Stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to try fictober2020 this year. It will mostly center around the dcau/jlu series, so stick around if you want or come scream with me on tumblr: @felicia-parker


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